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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27260254">Hellscape</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/icaruslaughed/pseuds/icaruslaughed'>icaruslaughed</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Suptober 2020 [22]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Supernatural</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-07 01:28:11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,287</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27260254</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/icaruslaughed/pseuds/icaruslaughed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>day 28 of suptober</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Suptober 2020 [22]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1955047</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Hellscape</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Alistair was pissed. Dean knew that much, although he didn’t know why. The Master of the Pit trembled with rage beside his apprentice, so powerful it radiated off him in waves that crushed the head of the soul laid bare on the table before them. He almost opened his mouth to say...something, but knowing what <em> he </em> got like when he’s even slightly pissed, that would not be the best option. So he waited, ever the obedient student, until Alistair decided to tell him something about something.</p><p>Long, leathery fingers wrapped around his forearm, squeezing over the line that had been sliced across his arm just for his Master’s entertainment and he tried his absolute hardest not to flinch. He must have been successful, too, because no words were spoken save for, “Come with me.” Alistair flapped his ugly, blood-speckled wings and took off, leaving Dean no choice but to follow. One of the few perks of becoming a demon: feathered wings, different from demon to demon as hair was amongst humans. He’d heard rumors, of course, during his time on the Rack, that demonic torture was adapted from that of Heaven, but he didn’t exactly believe them. But he came to realise that perhaps there was some truth to those whispers, because as they tore and ripped into him and he then ripped and tore into them, he found himself fashioned into a new being. One with wings and control over others simply based off of how many souls he carved and broke and remade into his own. </p><p>He rather liked this new being he found himself becoming.</p><p>The tortured screams faded as they flew to what Dean recalled to be one of the furthest reaches of the Pit. It was fairly empty even when he was given the Grand Tour nearly ten years ago—the territory having been recently claimed by some crossroads demon named Crowley—but he expected it to be less barren by now. But apparently the fuckwad who basically <em> stole </em> it from him and Alistair didn’t even have the decency to use the land. Although, upon closer inspection, maybe that wasn’t the case.</p><p>Alistair touched town in the middle of an empty field, hands folded behind his back, seething at the wreckage now coming into view. “About ten years ago, Crowley claimed this land. About two years after that, I made him an offer he couldn’t refuse and he gave it up. Since then I started developing it, using it as a nice place to keep souls before I could personally attend to them.” The pieces of this hellscape shaped puzzle began to come together, except one.</p><p>“What happened to it?” He crossed his arms and strolled around, taking in all the carnage. Souls, still left barely alive—for lack of a better word—had long since worn out their vocal cords, reduced to whispering piles of burnt corpses and dismembered limbs strewn across the ground. Chains and knives and various other tools used in certain practices were now hardly recognisable, reduced to lumps of metal sometimes melding with the singed flesh of dying souls. Hundreds of demons also lay dead in puddles of blood, left with their eyes burnt out or stab wounds maring their stomach or chest or throat. Clean wounds, too, made by someone skilled from what must be eons of combat practice. And as if that wasn’t already weird enough, there are new kinds of bodies on the ground, ones Dean’s never seen in his time in Hell or on Earth. Ones that still glow with a bright blueish-white light, yet left scorch marks in the shape of great wings. What sort of being other than demons have wings like that?</p><p>“Angels. They’re here for you. They’ve been fighting their way through Hell, <em> our </em> Hell, leaving all this destruction in their wake,” Alistair scoffs, “and I thought Heaven was supposed to be good and merciful.” The anger then made sense. It not only rippled off Alistair, but stemmed from his student as well.</p><p>Not the normal kind of anger, either. Not even like when he found out about the deal his dad made for him. This is the kind of rage borne of a being who had been twisted into a creature that feels only anger and fear. It’s the kind of anger that pooled in his gut and spread to every crevice in his body, blinding him with the color red and making his hands quiver. They shook with the need to rip something, anything—preferably the whole universe—apart.</p><p>How dare they? How <em> dare </em> the angels decide not only to come and retrieve him from the only place he has even thrived, but to ruin the kingdom he helped build in the process? How dare they take one of the few things he’d ever really done in his life and tear it to shreds, leaving nothing but this hellscape behind? Because it probably wasn’t just this territory. There were probably countless other territories being torn apart as they stood there, damage they could have been <em> stopping </em>, so why weren’t they?</p><p>Then he heard it. The screaming.</p><p>Dean Winchester had heard many types of screams during his time in Hell, let alone in his whole lifetime. He’d heard the screams of dying monsters, of ghosts being sent to their afterlife, of humans as the demon inside ripped them apart internally, of his loved ones. He’d heard his own screams. He’d heard the screams of a soul freshly hung on the Rack, of a demon who pissed him off, of those Alistair decided needed a lesson taught to them, of every demon or soul who thought they could overthrow the Heir of the Pit. Never in all his years of existence had he ever heard screams like those of the two different sorts of beings at war with one another. The part of him that he used to keep locked up, back before he told Alistair <em> Yes </em> , was almost jealous. It wondered what he could do to recreate those screams. The other part of him, the twisted version of humanity, agonised for his fallen comrades. It yelled at him to <em> Do something, go save them. </em> </p><p>He looked to Alistair to see the same thoughts flowing through his mind. One simple flick of his fingers told Dean he was allowed to go, to fight, even if it <em> was </em>him the angels were there for. He pulled an unfamiliar blade out of the chest of an unfamiliar corpse and ran to go join the fray.</p><p>At his hands, nearly a hundred angels must have fallen. He was relentless, fuelled by fury at the angels, at Heaven, for thinking he was worth saving. For trying to break him out. For killing so many of those he’d actually come to like down there. He sliced and he stabbed and he killed, angel after angel after angel, until he stumbled upon one staring at a pile of dismembered souls. For a moment, he forgot his rage and found himself wondering why an angel would give a shit about anything here, let alone a couple of newly arrived souls. </p><p>That moment cost him everything.</p><p>The angel looked up at him with eyes a shade of brilliant blue, almost like the ocean he nearly forgot the color of until now. Those eyes captivated him. Dean didn’t notice the angel lunge at him until it was too late. It held him tight, so tight it burnt a mark in the shape of a hand on his left shoulder. He thrashed in its grip, but it held him tighter still.</p><p>With a flap of mighty wings, the blue-eyed angel raised the broken, screaming Righteous Man from perdition.</p>
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